


A Beautiful Child

by stardustspirals



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angsting, Gen, sads, typical first age elf stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustspirals/pseuds/stardustspirals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turgon's clumsy attempts to make Maeglin feel comfortable in Gondolin are met with resistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beautiful Child

It had been a week since Maeglin's arrival in the city, since the incident, since the boy had been orphaned. He was eighty years old--not quite a child, but still a boy, and Turukáno was able to feel a stab of pity for him, a nagging worry for his well-being, even through his own confused grief at having the joy he'd felt at his sister's return brutally cut down by her death.

He felt as though the boy was his responsibility somehow--though he did have to keep reminding himself that Maeglin was an adult. Sort of. Almost. In Aman he certainly would have been at his age, but time was marked differently there, and those born under the stars seemed to grow more slowly. 

They had spoken but a little, awkwardly, hesitantly, Maeglin's jet black eyes not lingering too long on Turukáno's face, or sometimes too long, too intensely. He already looked different from the proud young man who'd entered Gondolin--now reduced to a shy little thing, like a cautious cat that had to sniff your hand for awhile before allowing you to pet him. Turukáno could not help but feel an almost fatherly concern for his sister's son.

He knocked lightly on the door to Maeglin's room, having learned a few days ago not to approach without giving him due warning--in the manner of the large, invasively familiar families of Aman, Turukáno had simply walked in without thinking, and Maeglin had snapped sharply in his clumsy, heavily accented Quenya, leaving tension hanging in the air when Turukáno had attempted to speak to him. 

_Good, he's doing alright today, then,_ Turukáno thought with an inward sigh of relief when Maeglin answered the door, his dark eyes bright, a lock of hair falling into his face; he seemed calm and alert, though he didn't open the door far enough to let Turukáno in.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to see you."

"Why?" Such a private young man.

"Just to talk."

Maeglin opened the door to let him in, then. The room had been decorated all in black, at Maeglin's strange request, but no one had questioned it. The boy had every right to mourn. Turukáno sat carefully on the edge of the bed, though Maeglin turned his back to him, looking into a full-length mirror that rested against the wall, sweeping up his pin-straight black hair before laying it over his shoulder to work it into a braid. He did this often, continued on with his business as if the company he had let in were not there. Turukáno caught Maeglin's face in the reflection, somewhere between soft and stern, with prominent cheekbones, a strong nose and jawline, and those intense black eyes. His sister had made a beautiful child. 

"You look like a Finwëan," Turukáno remarked softly, almost as if thinking aloud. Maeglin turned, frowning.

"What?"

Turkáno smiled, though perhaps a bit uneasily. Maeglin was not exactly welcoming. "You do! It's a compliment. After all, you are one."

"If you say so." Maeglin's soft voice seemed to hold the barest hint of regret.

"I do," Turukáno insisted, as Maeglin turned back to the mirror and began to braid his hair with slim, dextrous fingers-- like Eöl's, though his uncle didn't know that. 

A few silent moments passed before Turukáno made a gentle, vulnerable request: "Will you look at me?"

Maeglin turned again, his face no longer stern, but softened, the fingers of one hand lingering on the ends of his hair. He looked almost startled. "Yes," he nearly whispered.

"Sit here, with me." Maeglin complied, cautiously, studying Turukáno's face, hair half undone.

"You have Finwë's nose," Turukáno elaborated, "and cheekbones. Strong. Very strong features." 

"You knew him?" Maeglin asked, almost with an air of disbelief, and Turukáno fought the urge to laugh.

"Yes, child. He was my grandfather."

Maeglin's eyes widened. "Oh. I…forgot."

Turkáno smiled warmly. "He was a good man. A wise man. Wise and kind, and full of love." His stomach clenched when he thought of what had become of his grandfather, and he counted himself grateful not to have seen Finwë's reportedly crushed-in skull. He would not tell Maeglin that part.

But Maeglin's face changed, his lip even curling a little, and when he spoke again, his voice cut.

"You are fortunate, to have known your family." Turukáno's face fell. "With your siblings and your uncles and your cousins and your grandparents, languishing in the paradise of Valinor while my people struggled to survive."

_My people._ The Sindar. That stung.

"Who told you that?" he asked, and Maeglin looked away, jaw clenched tight. "Your father?"

" _Do not speak of my father!_ " Maeglin snarled, his anger every bit as fierce as that of Turukáno's own father. 

"I'm sorry," Turukáno apologized hurriedly, voice trembling a little, and Maeglin nearly cut him off.

"Get out," he demanded lowly, eyes cast down. A beat of silence passed; neither moved. Maeglin's eyes snapped up. " _Get out!_ "

Turukáno might have shut the door a bit too firmly when he left.


End file.
